November 9th, 2001

caillebotte_man at his window


A breeze is blowing steadily down the ridge, making the dry leaves skitter along the pavement. The moon has reached it's cheshire-cat grin phase, rising level above the treetops. A nice night for bats. I listen to the sound of the wind in the pines for a while, then go into the house to make a cup of tea, and watch the cats sleeping while I type away. The sound of the keyboard is oddly like the sound the leaves are making outside.
caillebotte_man at his window



by Yvor Winters

I, one who never speaks,
Listened days in summer trees,
Each day a rustling leaf!
Then, in time, my unbelief
Grew like my running:
My own eyes did not exist!
When I struck I never missed!
Noon, felt and far away,
My brain is a thousand bees.